


The Mimban Campaign

by ApeUnit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-11-08 10:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20834210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApeUnit/pseuds/ApeUnit
Summary: "This account is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. I will try simply to tell of Troopers who, even though they may have escaped the Battle, were destroyed by Mimban." -Paulus Maider





	1. Arrival

Paulus Maider, Pvt.

224th Imperial Armored Div.

Mimban Campaign

…10 years before the Battle of Yavin

I guess the arrival at Mimban is the best place as any to start. The deceleration beacon caught my attention, as it flashed in its red hue. I remember staring up at it from our battalion formation. It was the signal our ship was about to exit hyperspace.

The ship was one of three, all aged Acclamator Assault Ships. The Empire was stretched thin and needed to ferry in the replacement battalions for the 224th Armored Division. The Acclamators were the only transport ships available to Sector Command that could accomplish this phase of the movement. The 224th was a Grand Army Clone Division that had fought on Mimban during the War and remained in a peacekeeping role after the Imperial Reformation. Their role was expanding more and more into counterinsurgency operations, as the local populace were proving difficult. The Campaign required a troop surge to bring the division up to full combat strength and replenish depleted units.

The Acclamator brought me back to thoughts about my childhood on Euruta. All of us kids used to scavenge in the wrecked hulk of one that had been downed during the Clone War. The wreck had remained pretty much intact and I was able to do a good amount of exploring through its interior. Exploration and salvaging bits to sell to junkers. Naturally, I was curious to see one function.

Our battalion waited in the large holding bay to be immediately unloaded upon landing. The entire deck was a hive of activity. A line of bi-pedal walkers, All Terrain Defense Turrets, joined the formation. The AT-DTs served as self-propelled artillery, mounting a large turbolaser cannon on their frame.

A loud creek reverberated through the ship –the sound of metal grinding. It was the landing gear extending, as the Acclamator descended on the landing zone. Imperial Engineers carved out massive tracts of land for the Acclamators and other transports to touchdown on prepared tarmacs. The entire ship lurched when the landing gear made contact with the ground.

The ramp started to open and the bleak Mimbanese daylight began to seep into the hold. You could hardly call it daylight, the clouds blocked out most sunlight and everything seemed to be in a continuous haze. At this moment, a good number of us, myself included, started coming down with terrible fits of coughing, like when you're choking. Of course the ones coughing were those who neglected to fit their respirators out of carelessness or discomfort. The Imperial infantry were all issued with these clumsy respirators to wear over the face in addition to our bulky combat helmets and awkward fitting chest plates. The climate of Mimban is humid, beyond anything I had ever experienced on Euruta. I did boot and combat school aboard an orbital station, the station didn't even have functioning weather condition simulators.

It rained constantly on Mimban, with the skies perpetually darkened and the ground is an engulfing morass of mud. The decades of mining and refining of hyperbaride had torn up the land from what were mostly endless rainforests and swamps to hectares of desolate, mud clogged landscape. The air was so choked with fungal spores caused by the humidity and climate, they proved toxic to humans if exposure was prolonged. Hence the need for respirators. I know people like to throw blame at the Empire for environmental catastrophes on Mimban, but the mining had started decades ago, before the Empire was even founded, back during the Republic's watch.

Anyways, I am scrambling to attach the respirator to my face. The private next to me collapsed to her hands and knees; unloading her stomach contents all over the deck. The 2nd Platoon's Lieutenant, shouting at us to put our respirators on, then turns to me.

"What the hell is wrong with Private Haurn?" the Lieutenant barked, rhetorically. "You get her in line, Trooper!"

"Yes sir, sorry sir!" I quickly replied.

"And keep on your respirator on, dammit. The Empire issued it for this very reason."

The Lieutenant made the last comment more audible, so that those around could make sure they heard him, before he set off to continue his assessment of the platoon. The Lieutenant was an old hand at all of this. The battle scars that marked the lieutenant's face, a face identical to many of those aging in their Imperial service, the face of clone. There was no need for the Lieutenant to put on his respirator, for his lungs had already acclimated to the spores of Mimban. He had been here before, back during the War. It was the easiest way to spot the green troops planet side –acclimation took time.

Heeding the Lieutenant's order, I turned and reached out my hand to Haurn. Sonya Haurn was a cute –tall and thin with tan skin and deep hazel eyes. A little over a year older than I. She was struggling to catch her breath once I pulled her to her feet. I took the respirator she was fumbling to grasp and helped affix it to her face. Then tugged on the hoses to ensure they were attached and checked the airflow. She gave a thumbs up in appreciation.

The natural light from the nearby sun was mostly filtered out by the thick clouds. It was a burned orange sky. The pollution from the heavy mining only served to thicken the cloud cover. The churning up of the land had thrown more of the spores into the air.

The ramp had lowered and the battalion ordered to march. It was our battalion in the vanguard that lead the brigade and the rest of the Imperial infantry and Stormtrooper Corps detachments in disembarking. I got onto the ramp and could not help but gawk.

TIE Fighters screeched overhead, as they engaged their afterburners. Off on another sortie. Aligned in equal rows were the tents set up by the 224th. It had once been an organized military camp, but the attrition had worn the base down. The mud had been tracked everywhere. Soldiers not on combat patrol or picket duty were tasked to dig. Dig entrenchments to protect against hostile incursion. Dig drainage ditches for the water run off, or shore up the collapsing foundations of the prefabricated base structures that were constantly sinking into the mud. It was a task I would come to despise in time.

As my battalion descended the right side of the cargo ramp, others made their way up the left. They were infantry, alright, but not in a cohesive formation. These were the one who finished their rotation and were being transferred off of the planet. Just about every one of them seemed to taunt us as we passed. "Hope you enjoy the mud," they would say, "we'll be sure to take of your girlfriends while you're here", "dead men on arrival" and "don't let the Mimbanese tuck you in at night!"

Next, we passed the wounded. Some were able to walk on their own. They were bandaged and exhausted. Many others had to be carried on stretches up the ramp. Then a line of flatbed hover trucks made their way forward. The cargo of the hover trucks, twenty-five per sled, and five sleds in tow and arranged reverently, were the bags containing the remains of the Imperials who had fallen. The hover trucks caused many of the green Imperial troops to stare, as a feeling of dread overtook their optimistic pride. There seemed to be no end to the procession.

The noncommissioned officers started to shove the battalion along. Those who had stopped were thrown forward and ordered to advance. A resting group of Stormtroopers sat at the edge of the tarmac. They sprawled across stacked crates and huddled under a tarpaulin shelter that shielded them from the deluge of rain.

The Stormtroopers' mood was jovial, their white armor long tarnished by the mud and scuffed by the elements. A few had their helmets removed while they consumed steaming bowls of ration noodles. The warmth the only soothing comfort in the camp. They too began to hurl their taunts at our untested ranks –explaining our pitiful life expectancy and the superiority of the Stormtrooper Corps to that of the Army. Had the recruiter been more specific I probably would've signed on to be a Stormtrooper.

We were still descending the ramp and had the hull of the ship above our heads to shield us from the rain. That was the first time I had seen rain that heavy, like I said Euruta was a lot drier than this place. The water running down the hull of the Acclamator in torrents poured over the sides, creating massive waterfalls. It was bad enough that engineers had constructed awnings on the tarmac that lined up with ramp so personnel could approach the ship. The rushing water was enough to knock you off your feet in some places.

Distracted by the water and taunting for being fresh arrivals –that's how I missed it. A shriek pierced the air. An explosion tore through one of the large thrusters on the Acclamator. Suddenly, a blast in the camp, followed by another, and another, all in rapid succession. Discipline broke down, as commanders ordered us to find cover. But how do you find cover when you have no idea what you're doing, or what is even happening.

It was artillery fire coming from a ridgeline beyond the Imperial base perimeter. The Mimbanese Liberation Army would crawl out of their holes and lob ordinance at us. We were hit by a combination of light turbolaser mortars and rockets. All were surplus left by the Separatists or equipped by the Republic back during the Clone War. The Mimbos kept anything that could shoot.

The cohesion of our battalion disintegrated, as we all had to fend for ourselves. Some tried to run back into the cargo hold, but became entangled with the equally panicked troops marching behind us and the loading wounded. I was a meter or so from the ground, so I leapt off the ramp and came down hard on the tarmac, the equipment I carried weighing me down. Some poor bastards misjudged the height of the ramp relative to where they jumped and consequently broke ankles and legs when they hit. A good many just fell to their deaths.

The tarmac was mayhem with Troopers running in every direction. I figured those Stormtroopers I saw earlier might know what they were doing, so I made for their location. The laser blasts were landing all around. It wasn't accurate fire, it didn't have to be. The design of the base was to protect against infiltration –give it an easy perimeter to secure by grouping things together. Command was more worried about Mimbos running past our pickets and into our camp. The reality, any artillery round fired was bound to hit something.

I sprinted across the tarmac to the last spot I saw those Stormtroopers –but I could not find them. There was a shallow drainage culvert of mud with several crates stacked around it. I dove right for the cover –landing in the mud and bracing against the side of the culvert. My best option was to stay put and just wait.

The Clone War had furnished the enemy with all manner of weaponry, picked up from both sides in the conflict. Consequently, we were suffering a barrage of concussion rockets, proton bombs, mortar shells, you name it. The camp structures were being blasted apart that hurled men and debris through the air. Vast sections of the Acclamator were being sheared off from the impacts, as the big ship could not bring its shield online.

The sounds of battle were drowning out the preceding noises of the Acclamator powering down from landing. A squadron of TIE Bombers scrambled to take off, presumably to engage the hostile artillery. Their crews sprinting up the access ladders to the cockpits. Several bombs landed in their parked formation and destroyed a majority of the squadron. Maybe two or three were able to get airborne, I think. An anti-air rocket blasted one of their number from the sky. I can't recall what happened to the other(s). Air cover, or lack thereof, would be a constant issue plaguing us on Mimban.

Soldiers were screaming and I saw a small blast depression in tarmac near the edge of the ship's ramp. Surrounding the crater were the charred bodies of several Troopers. They were the lucky ones, as their hell on Mimban was already over.

I figured the crater to be the result of an incoming artillery round, but no. Blast came from the ground up. Those damn Mimbos had tunneled their way under the tarmac and blasted their way to the surface. I saw maybe half a dozen of them emerge from the hole. Their bulging eyes, suitable for the low light underground, I'll never forget seeing those. They were covered in tree palms all stuck to their backs as some sort of crude camouflage. Suddenly, they opened fire on the stunned Troopers who were helplessly scattering to avoid the artillery.

I braced against the muddy wall of the culvert, which I utilized as cover. I clenched the blaster rifle in my hands and held the weapon close to my chest, yet I could not muster the courage to shoot. In the heat of the moment, I just felt myself seize up, suppose it was just terror. I could hear the voice in my head urging me on to do something, to open fire on the enemy and I was letting my comrades down by not. But I could not bring myself to move. I just pressed my body against the culvert and tried my best to hide from the battle. I feel ashamed to admit that I was more worried about making it out alive, avoiding any heroics, and focusing on my own self-preservation. It was cowardice, no sense in dressing up the definition.

A few Stormtroopers had leapt into the culvert. They recognized what I was doing, the lack of a role I was playing in the ensuing combat. I do not think they were too concerned, as they had more to focus on than a cowering infantryman. One of the Stormtroopers desired the spot of cover where I braced to use as their firing position. The Stormtrooper pulled me up by the webbing of my kit and shoved me facedown into the mud. I pushed myself up from the muck and seated against the opposite wall of the culvert, a bit dazed from the chaos.

The Mimbos were far too exposed out in the open and figured they knew it. My guess is they were off on their tunneling estimate and breached in the wrong place. Preferable to emerge right in the middle of our tent city and run amok among the shelters. The mortar rounds were landing too close for comfort to their ranks. One of them was squawking in that clicking tongue of theirs into a communicator, in all probability at the artillerists to adjust fire to avoid hitting their own. A Stormtrooper put a bolt right through the chest of that one.

"Hey kid," another one of the Stormtroopers grabbed my shoulder and said. "Your detonator."

"What!?" I remember shouting back at him.

The Stormtrooper didn't take time to answer. Rather, he seized the thermal detonator I had affixed to my chest rig; pulling it free. He armed the explosive and threw it directly at the tunnel's opening. The thermal detonator bounced around the rubble before it slipped into the abyss below. Just as a few Mimbos were scrambling back into the tunnel. An explosion rocked the area; sending a massive conflagrated plum upwards. Any of the Mimbos who were entering the hole were incinerated. The thermal detonator also collapsed the entry of the tunnel and rendered it unusable until our engineers could carry out a more thorough demolition. The remaining Mimbos were all shot down where they stood. I didn't see any of the veteran Stormtroopers attempting to take prisoners, might be for the best, as none of the Mimbos looked like they were surrendering.

This engagement concluded, I was able to climb out of the culvert and view the scene for myself. Off in the distance, on the ridgeline, an incoming flight of TIE Bombers were dropping all the ordinance they carried. It was in the direction of the area where the Mimbos had setup their artillery that had just been shelling us. The Bombers were reducing the ridge of trees to a barren knoll –pitted so extensively with craters and burning trails of conflagrane. Doubtful they were actually hitting anything, as the enemy's artillerists likely withdrew into their holes and escaped before the first TIE was overhead.

The blaster fire in our vicinity had stopped, we mostly heard the fighting raging in the distance. There was a commotion on the tarmac, a mixture of Stormtroopers and us Swamp Troopers started to gather in a circle.

Before us was the most pathetic Mimbo you ever saw. The damn thing was still alive, barely. Several baster bolts had struck the creature and it was struggling to crawl. A number of the Troopers, predominantly the newly arrived ones, were more curious to see the enemy up close. None had seen a real life Mimbanese, I hadn't seen many non-humans, didn't have many of them come through to Euruta, didn't have much of anyone come through to Euruta.

Those that weren't gawking, the veterans, the Stormtroopers, who had been on Mimban for a while, were less interested in satisfying their curiosity. They were taking their turns kicking and stomping the creature. It was their enemy, an enemy that had killed many of their friends, an enemy responsible for the fighting and the misery they endured on Mimban. They wanted the enemy to suffer.

The Mimbanese creature was screeching from the pain. I remember there was little blood, the blaster bolts had cauterized the wounds. The physical attacks rendered by Imperial boots opened up wounds and caused the creature to start bleeding. They were just worked up into a frenzy, like it was something uncontrollable. Perhaps an officer or two had joined in, I can't confirm that nor will I go on record to make that claim, but I think you can piece it together.

The Stormtroopers continued their unrestrained treatment of the Mimbo. Those in my battalion, the ones gawking at the creature, were being hurried back into formation. The unloading of the ship resumed, with more infantry beginning their descent on the ramp.

There were five hundred of us in our battalion. Twenty or so had been killed in the attack with maybe sixty wounded. Three from my platoon. That was just our battalion, there were bodies laying all over the place. Enough to create a path of the dead to allow one to walk across this section the tarmac without having to set a foot upon the ground.

Our lieutenant left our formation to confer with the company commanders, who were, in return, conferring with battalion command. Haurn stepped up in the ranks next to where I stood. Her fatigues and kit were just as muddied as mine –assuming she sought safety of the culvert. She was shaking visibly, we all were. A combination of nerves and cold, as the rains continued to fall. Lined up as we were, a few shells could blast us apart in no time. I turned to Haurn to strike up a conversation, anything to break the tension.

"Hey," I said, the respirator distorting my speech. "You alright?"

Haurn turned to me, I couldn't get a judge on her expression because of her own mask. Regardless, before she could reply orders were shouted to forward march. Our line was directed through the ramshackle Imperial camp. Eroding drainage ditches diverted the water to the middle of the street where we walked, requiring heavy and laborious steps to make it through the mud.

Troopers, both Army and those of the Stormtrooper Corps, lounged about the tents. From their indifference you could hardly suspected the camp had been under an artillery bombardment not a half hour prior. Those without the protection of a full suit of Stormtrooper armor were huddled under their raincloaks in a paltry effort to remain dry. Others huddled around the oxygen filtration generators attached to the tents that purified the air. Tents were airtight to allow humans to breath easily without masks when inside. The exhaust vent on the generators put out a jet of heat, as a small comfort to those suffering from this misery. The rapid troop buildup outpaced the supply of tents. There simply were not enough, yet, to house everyone.

The camp was laid out in the standard gird, as dictated by Imperial Military doctrine. Headquarters in the center, with communications and stores, ringed outwards by the fighting troops. Wide thoroughfares allowed for easy movement on Troopers and walkers, when able to be adequately cleared of mud.

Passing one of the tents with its door, having been ripped off, we could see the squalid interior. Troopers slept on what little remained of their tattered raincloaks on a floor of mud. They were packed so tightly inside, they had to lay on their sides with no room to roll onto their backs. The rows of bunks, stacked four high, slept three of four to a berth intended for one. Everyone was filthy, caked in the mud and perpetually soaked. After the sounds of battle, the second most noise you heard was the cough.

The occasional crater took the place of where a tent had been. Undoubtedly destroyed by Mimbanese artillery round. Unable to replace the structure, from lack of stores, a simple tarpaulin cover was pulled over the shell hole and Troopers crawled under to shelter from the elements. It was the most dejected and pitiful showing of our Grand Imperial Army.

Word spread its way through the column, as we trudged through the camp, that we were being sent to the front. You had your basic soldier's rumors, the Mimbos were surrendering and we were the ones to accept it, or the enemy had broken our trench line and we were going to fight a rearguard action. Others said we were being thrown into an assault to capture the Mimbanese positions on that ridge where the artillery came from. The rumor I preferred said we were going to dig breastworks. I would rather dig than have gone through with this madness.

At the edge of the formal camp were the trenches. The rear communication and staging trenches were sunk four to six meters into the ground, to better afford protection and conceal movements, troop numbers. Our pace was quickened, officers and non-comms urging us forward and a more rapid pace than your standard march.

The Troopers back in the camp were the ones rotated out of the trenches and afforded the brief respite. The ones we encountered, manning the lines, were a most wretched sight. Some expel the contents of their lungs in various fits of coughing, a result from the planet's harmful spores. Covered in grime, they dug little holes in the sides of the trench walls as their shelters. Interesting, considering the walls were durasteel plates erected to hold the dirt back. Meaning these Troopers cut through the metal with blas-torches and excavated their dugouts. Anything to get out of the rain.

These are the comparatively sought after dugouts. Some are virtually blast proof against artillery, as they have been cut deep into the ground. Larger ones, being able to shelter eight to ten Troopers are roofed with massive durasteel plates supported by beams. They won't resist a direct hit, but afford protection against laser cannons and rocket artillery. The ground inside these dugouts is covered with the tattered remains of raincloaks and they are furnished with a table, benches or chairs fashioned from discarded supply crates.

Idle Troopers manning the trench stood up against the side walls to allow us space to pass. Grates and metal beams had been laid in the flooring of the trenches to provide a stable footing, yet there were flooded sections where you had to wade through shin deep water in order to advance. We were passing out of the built up communications and support trenches toward the frontline ones. They were far more primitive, with little or no durasteel reinforced walls to hold back the mud, no flooring to keep you dry.

No words can adequately describe the conditions. It's not just the Mimbos we're fighting, but the planet. Within an hour of moving off, we were up to our knees in mud and water. The mud gradually got deeper as we advanced along the trench. We hadn't gone far before we had to duck –the Mimbos were sending over a short barrage of rockets. To move forward, I had to use both elbows for leverage, one each side of the trench. After about one and a half hours of this, we reached the firing line.

The frontline trenches are in a terrible condition –up to a meter deep in mud and water. We're plastered in mud up to our faces. They are topped with strong parapets reinforced with sandbags and fascines cobbled from scavenged materials, emplaced laser turrets, embrasures, and loopholed durasteel plates behind which a Trooper can find cover. It is in this trench we are arranged along with a veteran battalion, currently standing to; braced against the firing step. The laser turrets let loose a salvo at the Mimbanese position to further pummel the foe.

I, as well as most in the platoon, had no idea what was going on or what we were supposed to be doing. The orders seemed to be lost and we did not know if we were to start manning this position or move to another. The major of our battalion began conversing with the captain, the highest ranking officer left, of the veteran battalion. There was a command post cattycornered from where I stood, should to shoulder with the other quivering newbies. I am sure the veterans were chiding and taunting us to no end, but I cannot recollect that part.

Some heated words were exchanged before both officers came storming out of the command post. Our major turned to the unfortunate Trooper carrying a comm unit on his back and began berating the poor kid in front everyone –blaming him for breaking the equipment and the subsequent loss of communications with headquarters.

A brief council of war was convened among the battalion staff, after which our clone lieutenant called our platoon to listen up.

"Mimbos have been blasted off that ridge," the clone spoke up, a harsh rasp in his voice. "Command wants to send us in to make sure there's nobody left alive."

I could feel my heart drop at what was being asked of us. I was still trembling from the sights I witnessed at the tarmac. Now, we were being ordered to go right to the source. Terrified would be a polite way to explain the platoon's feeling on the subject. One reassuring sight was low flying TIE Bomber, which passed over head. The charged sound of accelerated torpedoes and schreeching churn of the craft's twin ion engines deafened the senses, as the attack run commenced. The ground shook when the ordinance detonated on the ridge in the distance.

It was a disquiet sight to watch the veteran Troopers withdraw from the firing step they occupied. The veterans took the opportunity to stretch out or lay down in some of the outcroppings and dugouts they prepared. The orders were given for us to take their pace, which we did. The odd clumsy newbie Trooper slipping in the mud, as they nervously tried to get their footing on the step.

This had to be a mistake, I kept telling myself. Along the line our battalion readied to advance. We had never seen combat before — completely untested having arrived on Mimban just a few hours ago. I was not sure why our commanders were throwing us into battle like this. Later, I would find out it was a mistake.

"FORWARD!" the command bellowed down the line from every officer.

Troopers stepped up from the firing step and hauled themselves over the parapet. A great many tumbled face first and landed in the mud. Those behind tripping over their comrades in front. It was a wave of fumbling as we surged out of the trenches and forward. A heavy hand in my back pushed me up and I quickly gained my feet. Some Troopers were turning around to help pull others out. Gradually, things began to evolve into a rush toward the enemy's ridge.

We leapt over craters that pot marked the ground. Artillery shelling had reduced it to a barren waste. Many of the shell holes were filled with water and would swallow a man if they were unfortunate enough to fall in. There were broken wrecks of AT-DT walkers littered about this ground, as were the discarded bits of Trooper kit —helmets, armor, packs and the like. The bodies were the most unpleasant sight. Thousands of them strewn about, twisted and contorted in every manner. Some blasted in half or with arms or legs missing.

There was but little time to take in the remains of battle –the advance had to commence. We pressed forward at a brisk pace. Moving over the broken landscape, stepping delicately to avoid setting a foot on a corpse. The more eager, or more insane, Troopers of the battalion broke in to a run –charging headlong to the ridge.

My hands were shaking so badly, as I gripped my E-10 blaster and held it prepared should I need to start shooting –hoping I'd be able to shoot. One foot in front of the other, I forced myself to keep moving. Twenty-five meters I had survived thus far. What noise I could hear were the shouts of furry by a battalion of advancing Troopers being spurned on by their officers. Fifty meters I accomplished and no wounds. Then seventy-five meters advanced. I slid down the embankment of a large crater and had to crawl up the steep opposite side.

I took a moment to catch my breath from the cover offered by this crater. Braced on this embankment, I scanned the battlefield. One thing struck me as being quite peculiar, there was no one shooting at us. The emplaced turrets from our line passed bolts over our heads, but there was no fire coming at us.

The Troopers of the battalion soon came to the same observation. The advance lost its momentum about a hundred meters from the foot of the ridge. Several came to a halt in this wasteland and others, winded from the exertion, slowed to a walk. Everyone started bunching together, trying find each other and get organized. We had expected to charge a fortified enemy, but it appeared the enemy was not there.

A low fog had been descending on the area while we had worked our way through the trench network. By now it had thoroughly blanketed the area reducing visibility further. I was quickly losing sight of the Troopers to my front. Then the quiet overtook the field. Our turrets ceased their fire, so as not to hit our own Troopers.

A few other Troopers had followed my path into the crater and were crawling up the side to my left and right. They too indulged the opportunity to pause. We waited there for a several tense moments believing there was no enemy. That perhaps the Mimbos had been driven off or blasted from the ridge.

Then a shrill howl pierced the air. A barrage of rockets fell upon our ranks from the direction of the ridge. The darkened skies of Mimban turned a blinding shade of orange –illuminated by the artillery impacts. The cries of Troopers, amplified and distorted by their breathing apparatuses and communicators, echoed across the waste.

The scene was appalling. Bombs and rockets and every manner of killing explosive was hurled at us. Whole groups of Troopers melted away in seconds. Automatic blaster fire opened from the ridge and raked its way through our Troopers –cutting them down as if it were nothing. Panic had set in as nobody knew whether to advance, stand their ground, or run.

The Mimbos had been waiting for us –lured into their trap. They waited out the bombardment in their caves and holes cut into that ridge. Once our infantry went in, they emerged and opened on us with this punishing hell. Of course, we were too close to their positions to expect any support from our TIE cover or turrets.

Raising my E-10, more out of panic than anything else, I pointed it in the general direction the Mimbos. I think I let off a dozen shots or so, couldn't keep track. The shelling was getting worse and cohesion among the battalion collapsed. It was general rout.

Officers had lost control, separated from their command or killed. I had no idea where our lieutenant was, at this point I did not care. Everyone was retreating back to the safety of our trenches, but fleeing in the open made them easy targets.

There was a sergeant next to me in the crater. She had her bravado up and was firing wildly, sort of the inspiration that had me firing as well. While retreating Troopers were being shot down around us, she was yelling at our group of maybe nine to hold our position.

A Trooper was running directly toward our crater, clearly wishing to seek its meager cover, when a blaster shell landed adjacent to them. I saw this poor sap tossed through the air and incur a hard landing —laying just a few meters away. They had their legs blown off and all I could see was their thigh bones protruding from their trousers. I will always remember their white thigh bones. The rest of their legs were gone.

The sight was enough for me and I had to look away. I felt myself vomit inside my respirator, to the point I had to tear it from my face. That sergeant was still barking encouragement, but I wanted no more part in this futility. I let my body slide along the crater's embankment towards the bottom. I was not noticed in doing this, as it must've appeared I was hit.

I pulled myself along the liquefied muck in the lowermost part of the crater before scurrying up the other side. One final look back and I spotted the sergeant. She had turned to point an accusatory finger directly at me –a beckoning to return to my post lest I be considered a deserter. In an instant, a proton shell landed almost directly on her and the party and they simply ceased to be.

On my feet, I ran as fast as could manage in this terrain. Sprinting through the morass and navigating the debris and dead. Several times I tripped and fell completely down, only to rise again to keep running.

Blasts in all direction threw up heaps of mud, as rockets impacted, bombs detonated. I tried to shut out everything from my mind –solely focused on reaching those trenches. There was not one thing I have ever desired more in my life than reaching that forward line.

My legs were quivering, my body shaking. I felt tired, hungry, dehydrated, lungs poisoned with spores, and on the verge of collapse. My blaster rifle had since become separated and I had discarded the raincloak in order to run faster. And then I spotted it. That heavily armed parapet, bristling with Troopers aiming their blasters was a sight to behold.

"DON'T SHOOT, FRIENDLY!" I shouted, raising my hands.

Fortunately for me, they did hold their fire as they recognized me as a friendly. A few meters to close the distance. My heart pounding against my chest armor. One of the Trooper rose partly and extended a hand, as if to welcome me.

One step, two step, and I leapt with the last bit of energy I could muster. Passing over the embrasure, I collapsed into the arms of two Troopers, having tripped once again. They pulled me over the parapet and into the lines. I fell to the floor of the trench, settling in several inches of mud. It was the most welcome mud I ever thought I'd see.


	2. Euruta

I mentioned Euruta, my homeworld. I figure I should at least say something about that rock. Nestled right between Hutt Space and the Kessel Sector, ours was a barren, overlooked, impoverished, Outer Rim World. You had your choice between living in the rocky hills or the dry valleys.

Euruta had few natural resources, too few for even smugglers and small time corporations to exploit. The only ones who ever would come would be the slavers from Kessel or Nar Shaddaa, whenever their laborer numbers needed supplementing. Most everyone on Euruta was malnourished in some capacity, so their “collection” trips were hardly worthwhile, but they still came. It had been this way for centuries.

The slavers were almost exclusively non-human species, Gran, Zabrak, or Zygerrians. I’d imagine humans lacked the stomach to practice this behavior on their own kind. We were taught from a young age to both hate and fear them, but mostly hide whenever you spotted a xeno. Euruta was an overwhelmingly human populated planet, so the distinction was easy to make. Any alien on this worthless rock had an ulterior motive for being there, and you could never take them at their word. 

It could be expected –fear and paranoia being associated with some of your earliest memories. Countless nights of my childhood were spent cowering in the well concealed cellar of our hovel when the slavers entered the settlement. The worst collection, they made off with one hundred and twenty people, one-third of the settlement’s population, in one night. They took my mother in that raid. The Zygerrians were particularly effective in their efforts in rounding up Eurutians. It seemed to come naturally to their kind. 

I can recall tales about the old times –I couldn’t imagine things were always this bad. Euruta was a flourishing paradise at one point, the tellers would claim. The brutal, yet localized, Eurutian Civil War about a millennium ago wiped out our sorry excuse for a planetary government and our advanced settlements. From then on it was tribalism, though we Eurutians mostly let each other alone. Nobody had anything worth taking, as destitution was equally distributed. 

Of course, here and there, individuals would make overtures to the Republic and the Senate. They would plead for aid, inclusion, or at the very least enforcement of the anti-slavery laws. The Senate never took any serious action. I guess we were too far out of the way for them to care. The Republic seemed to care when the Separatists Fleet arrived.

I have heard conflicting accounts as to why the Separatists came to Euruta. Some will say they wanted to establish a naval base –protect the transport convoys of war materials illegally sold by the Hutts. Others claim they were surveying for a remote planet to establish a droid manufactory. More than likely, the Republic task force stumbled upon their armada and the battle began by accident.

I was around eight when the Battle of Euruta was fought. The Droid Army had landed a few days prior to the Republic’s arrival. I remember a tall, ornately dressed human escorted through the streets by his B1 Battle Droids. He was not there to bother or harass us, on the contrary, he was rather friendly. Greeting those he met on the streets, giving parcels of sweets to us kids, hell, one the droids let me shoot its blaster at some scrap metal. They even sent a squadron of engineering droids over to rebuild our water re-processor and donated a medical droid to care for the sick.

Mostly, this official from CIS was there to warn us to stay indoors if fighting with Republic forces broke out. He went on to say they weren’t expecting any sort of engagement, and that they’d be gone in a few days time. He even offered a passage off of Euruta in exchange for service in the Confederacy. A few of the older kids signed on. I would’ve joined them if I were their age. Then the Republic arrived.

We climbed the tall hill beyond the settlement to stare at the night sky and watch the battle in orbit. The laser exchanges illuminated the blackness. The explosions from ships being blasted apart was exciting when there absolutely nothing else to keep you entertained.

The space battle lasted for maybe three days and nights. On the fourth day, a squadron of five Acclamator Assault Ships, under heavy fighter escort, broke through the Separatist Armada’s battle line and descended to the surface. I did not feel much like doing chores that day, not with all the excitement, so me and my mates slipped out of the settlement to go have a look at the droid base on the opposite plateau, a good four or five kilometers away. 

We found a small rise that overlooked the droid base, the droids knew we were there, but did not seem to bother us. We really just wanted to watch, things were never this exciting. Then their anti-ship artillery opened up. Their turbolaser bolts arced into the sky. 

Three made direct hits on the lead Acclamator. Dropping in, almost out of nowhere, a Munificent-Class Star Frigate descended at a forty-five degree angle and fired its forward cannons in a spread between the Acclamators. The frigate leveled out to avoid a collision. The lead Acclamator had sustained heavy damage and was going down. The four remaining were readjusting their flight path to engage the droids.

Fighters from both sides locked in aerial combat. Droids on the ground were firing heavy repeating turrets at the sky, filling it with enough ion-flak to make it nearly impassable. Dropships began to emerge from the holds on the four Acclamators, the old LAATs. The battle was chaos and I couldn’t tell who was winning. The dropships would spray the droid base with rockets –blasting countless battle droids apart. The frigate would then fire its point defense ordinance at the dropship with devastating effect.

We decided it was probably safer for us back at our settlement –being a rocket passed too close for comfort meters above our heads. We crossed the valley towards home. The burning hulk of an Acclamator prepared for a crash landing just south of the droid base, but all of a sudden it lurched. The droid craft were no longer bothering to attack that Acclamator and turned their attention to the others. It was coming down fast and changing course. The bow was pointed directly at the settlement. A V-Wing spun out of control and exploded when it smashed into the ground, not a few meters from us. Our group scattered and we became separated. Debris was falling out of the sky left and right, and we took our own paths to seek cover.

I crouched against a boulder in the dried out riverbed –watched the stricken Acclamator crash. The Acclamator’s reactor went critical and exploded. I was just outside the blast zone because I made it, though was thrown several meters and knocked senseless. 

The battle had long ended by the time I awoke. I was in a makeshift hospital that was overflowing with a mixture of clone and civilian casualties. Ideally, the military wanted to keep their troopers separated from the local inhabitants, but triage and overworked doctors prevented their intentions. The hospital was a collection of shaded shelters of tarpaulin set up below the ventral cover of a landed Acclamator. Everything was set up in the ruins of the once established droid base.

“Hey, rest easy son,” said the accented voice of one of the medical clones. “You sustained a pretty nasty head injury.”

My head was pounding at that point and my vision was not completely straight. 

“Can you tell me your name? Who your people are?” the clone asked.

Everything seemed to fade into a blur and I believed I blacked out at that point, because I don’t remember much afterwards. When I regained consciousness again a few days later, events had taken a pretty drastic turn. 

I was able to sit up in the medical bed, now aboard the Acclamator’s sickbay. There were a few hours of a medical droid administering care before I was greeted by an actual person, or clone of a person.

An orderly, the medical clone who had been there when I woke up the first time, or the first time I remembered, came to chat. He was asking me questions about who I was, where I came from. I told him, if he couldn’t guess already, I was a local and my settlement had been in the vicinity of where their Acclamator had crashed. I then asked if I could go home already –that my abusive, alcoholic, piss poor excuse for a father was probably waiting to deliver a belting once I returned.

The medical clone seemed a bit uneasy, like he hadn’t had much experience delivering bad news. He told me the Acclamator crashed headlong into the settlement and it was completely vaporized when the reactor blew. I can’t say I was sad when I heard the news. Only one I had left was my father, who had been reduced to a deadbeat mess since we lost my mother. All my older siblings had already ran off or were snatched in the collections. 

It was also in that same conversation, I don’t know how we bridged to it, but the medical clone told me the War with the Separatists was over. He said the Republic had been reorganized into the Galactic Empire. The announcement was only days old and nobody really knew what that last part fully meant, the troopers were more elated in the fact the War had ended and they were victorious.

Things started to progress pretty quickly now, with the establishment of the Empire. The former droid base had become the central hub of all activity on Euruta. The clones had started repurposing it as a staging depot for resupplying campaigns before the cessation of hostilities. As it was already a concentration point and established base, the Empire just kept building on to support their transition into peacetime. Being the only Imperial real estate on Euruta, the new Imperial Governor had nowhere else to begin constructing his administrative compound.

Eurutians from all over the planet started migrating to its vicinity. The base served as the direct link from the planet to the rest of the Empire. Imperial forces constructed landing ports, barracks, supply depots, and the infrastructure to maintain a garrison in this Sector. The work required labor the local Eurutians were willing to fill. So, in a few years, the once droid camp became a ramshackle, prefabricated, repurposed city sprawling in all directions from the Imperial facilities. 

For the first time in a long time in Euruta’s history, the people had opportunities to work, infrastructure and suitable housing were being rapidly built to support settlement’s growing population. Those enterprising Eurutians discovered that valuable Imperial construction contracts could be secured by simply organizing a workforce to meet the Empire’s increasing demand. The Empire was paying credits to develop this planet and everyone was doing what they could to make themselves rich.

As for me, I saw Euruta develop. The once contested battlefield transformed into a bustling space port. Ships would come and go daily unlike anything I had ever seen before. I ran the streets of the newly proclaimed Yggdrasil City, after the first Imperial Governor Trajos Yggdrasil. There was even a cut of the prosperity for the orphans organized into street gangs. The Separatists had shot down another Acclamator on the day of the landing, only this one remained relatively intact when it crashed, too far gone to recommission, but good enough to scrap. There were downed ships and military debris from both sides of the conflict all over this region ripe for picking. I spent a few years scavenging for valuable components and selling them to junkers in Yggdrasil’s markets. Military quartermasters were always supplementing their stores with the salvage they bought from junkers. 

I made a good many credits in this line of work, that I mostly squandered away being an ignorant kid. The routine was starting to wear me down and I was honestly getting bored with life on Euruta. Quick credits could be made, but it was nothing that could sustain you in the long run. The arrival of professional salvage corporations taking over rights to scrap the old wrecks put us individual scavengers out of work. You had the choice of hustling the streets of Yggdrasil like a rat, or returning to the old ways of subsistence farming the unsuitable land.

It seemed to be the new tradition amongst the youth who reached their adulthood year to immediately enlist for Imperial service. Imperial “policy” called for an individual to be eighteen standard years, though you could easily make the cut at seventeen, what with all the recruiters eligible for promotion if they surpassed recruitment quotas. The Eurutian calendar never quite synced with the standard Galactic one on Coruscant. We may have been a few cycles off out here. I honestly couldn’t tell you my real age, sixteen maybe? The recruiter said I looked “old enough” and accepted my enlistment. The more recruits he signed, the faster they’d reward him with a transfer off of this dump. With no family, no prospects, and just a desire to see more than Euruta, I entered Imperial Service. 

**000**


End file.
